


Words in Red

by Pegasister60



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Despair, Gen, Poet Makoto Naegi, Poet Naegi Makoto, during The Tragedy, poet AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasister60/pseuds/Pegasister60
Summary: His thoughts bleed on the pages in stanzas saturated with suffering and misery.
Kudos: 18





	Words in Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Makowo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makowo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Burning Daisies, Blooming Gladiolus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516381) by [Makowo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makowo/pseuds/Makowo). 



> hey, Makowo, this is that thing i made for your boy that i showed you forever ago

He couldn’t take this. 

It ate away at him inside, day after day, to stay within these walls. To see the others smile and joke while he was suffocating.

How did they do it? How did they go on with their lives, enjoy the luxuries at their disposal, when there were people screaming in agony in the hellfire beyond their walls? When they had abandoned friends and family and strangers and enemies to burn? 

It wasn’t fair. What made him worthy of being sheltered and clothed and fed with the rest of these people who had been handpicked to be preserved? What made **them** worthy? Swimming faster than everyone else, dressing better than everyone else, fighting better than anyone else? 

Shouldn’t they be out there? Shouldn’t they be doing damage control? If these people were so great, shouldn’t they _use_ their talents? What use is having a collection of tools if you don’t use them when something’s broken? 

Then again, he doesn’t have the right to critique them. He’s worse than they are. At least they have use, at least they have worth. What does he have? 

Luck, supposedly. 

There was so much to unpack there. Years and years of never being anything. Never being enough. Plain. Boring. Dull. What was he even doing with his life? Why hadn’t he thought about this before? 

It took the whole world going to hell in a handbasket to crack his rose-tinted lenses.

It’s almost funny, because he’s still seeing **pink.**

He sees it everywhere. His dreams, his memories, these halls, his pen.

No, not his pen. That’s always been red, hasn’t it?

Swift flicks of his wrist send the tip scratching across the paper. Line after line of thoughts bleed into the paper. 

He almost wishes it was pink.

He uses it anyways.

Red red red ink. Red like their eyes that scream and cry for anarchy. Red like the sky that bleeds and feeds at midnight. 

Red like lilies.


End file.
